


Woodworking

by MotivoRosso



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Because I can, Books, Chess, Cullen Deserves A Break, Cullen Fluff, Cullen Is A Big Ol' Softie, Dorian Also Deserves a Break, Dorian fluff, Dorian has feelings, Farm Boy Realness, Ferelden, Gen, I Said No Angst But I Lied, M/M, Mutual Gifting, Nature, Pre-Romance, Romance, Sentimental, Sweetness, whittling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-21 16:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotivoRosso/pseuds/MotivoRosso
Summary: Cullen leans forward to hook a finger onto the simple pewter dish and tugs it toward him. The space directly before him on the worn desk is clear of the never-ending snowfall of reports and missives that’re stacked tidily, for once, though by a logic he knows he’ll forget come sunrise.Still, he’s other things on his mind.





	1. Chess

Cullen leans forward to hook a finger onto the simple pewter dish and tugs it toward him. The space directly before him on the worn desk is clear of the never-ending snowfall of reports and missives that’re stacked tidily, for once, though by a logic he knows he’ll forget come sunrise.

Still, he’s other things on his mind.

_ It’s a stick_.

Already he can hear his friend’s voice in his head, dripping with just the right amount of Tevinter-bred disbelief and scorn.

The door is locked and the candle stuck in the center of the humble plate is sputtering almost merrily, echoing the last curls of Dorian’s laughter in his mind.

He takes a breath and lets it out in measures, counting the beats of his heart. 

The length of wood is not quite the span of his palm but nearly the girth of his wrist, mottled here and there still with bark that’s mostly given way to smooth, weathered grey beneath. He knows, though, that a flick or two of the blade will reveal fresh brown and do away with the intricate whorls of worms long since dead. He turns the knob once, twice with careful, bared fingers, his gloves stripped and draped neatly over the arm of his chair. He hadn’t touched it without the press of leather between his fingers until now, even when he’d carefully wiped away the morning slush to see how deep the damp went.

Not deep at all, blessedly. He’d camped one night, soothing his horse against the stirrings of creatures clawing their way from slumber into the abrupt and fleeting spring, and in the morning the wood was perfectly dry sat in its place of reverence by the fire. 

_ You left Skyhold for an entire day, told no one where you were planning to go, and came back with … a stick. _

At this hour everyone is abed save the patrols that occasionally betray their presence by the scrape of a boot, the clink of metal outside his door. He’ll awake to even more paper than what’s before him, surely, but the cost of nearly breaking his neck the first few mornings as he set foot on a piece of parchment instead of stone is well worth the bolted door he now treats himself to in the evenings. _ Let them leave their messages at your feet like forlorn lovers, or nail them to the walls if they’re important enough, _ Dorian scoffed, flapping his hands at Cullen’s mumbled protests. _ Lock the bloody door and have some time to yourself once in awhile. _

He’ll be hard-pressed to ever admit that Dorian is right about anything, but the stillness of the hour and the simple, aching contentment of staring at anything that’s not to do with the Inquisition is a blessing.

Cullen turns the wood once more and sets it in his palm, smoothing his fingers along a bare patch of weathered silk. He smiles and slips a plain knife from the drawer to his right, furrows his brow and sets the blade against the first bristle of stubborn bark.

Inside the drawer, under seals and bottles of ink and all the odd ends of wax he’s loathe to throw away, is a scrap of parchment boasting a careful rendering of a chess Queen. Her circlet peaks above her smooth face in slight homage to Andraste herself, but her lines, her angles, are all Tevinter.

Cullen bows his head, smiles, and sets the blade to the wood once more.


	2. Bookish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s early enough that the sun still slumbers, warming the dull edges of the horizon with crimson promise. Soon she’ll yawn and stretch her rays across endless expanses of blue ice, velvet in moonlight but hardened to diamond brilliance by the daytime.
> 
> Nearly every culture and pantheon of Thedas considers the sun in male terms, but Dorian’s always thought of the bountiful cruelty of daylight as utterly feminine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian doesn't seem the type to let a thoughtful gift go unreciprocated.
> 
> Thanks all for the kudos & comments. Hope you enjoy!

It’s early enough that the sun still slumbers, warming the dull edges of the horizon with crimson promise. Soon she’ll yawn and stretch her rays across endless expanses of blue ice, velvet in moonlight but hardened to diamond brilliance by the daytime.

Nearly every culture and pantheon of Thedas considers the sun in male terms, but Dorian’s always thought of the bountiful cruelty of daylight as utterly feminine. Aquinea favored colors much like those of the life-giver, after all, and he’d reached for those skirts and their false comfort too often in his youth to bother correcting his private notions. Fanciful as they may be now.

He shifts a fold of his cloak closer about his neck and digs the heel of his hand into the bridge of his nose. The last patrol passes him by without a glance. They’re used to his evening sojourns by now, and know well enough to leave him be if he doesn’t offer a friendly word or five. He often comes here to sate his buzzing thoughts, for the chill wind’s melody to soothe his restless mind as it whistles through the cracks in the stone. 

At first it was after a night spent with roaring company in the cheerful firelight and banter of the tavern. He’d got it into his head after several too many to sway loose-hipped - still graceful as ever, thank you very much - up the narrow staircase to light against the door of a certain Commander’s office. Just to check, mind, that the poor man had actually locked it as he claimed he would earlier that day. Dorian had swept his fingertips across the latch, splayed them against the wood and pushed a little, and lo, it hadn’t budged.

He’d rolled around to let the door support his back and wheezed out a laugh without most of its usual cultured grace. Sonorous, it filled his drunken ears and seemed to bounce off the very mountains. Pressing a finger to his lips and squeezing his eyes against near-hysterical tears of mirth, he’d swallowed the rest of his triumph and shook a little at the effort.

The man had bloody listened. Wonder of all wonders.

Since then, Dorian made it his ritual to saunter up the steps two or three nights a week to verify the solitude of his friend. And, as the hour ticked later and later and his sleep became more restless and populated with shadows that took on too-familiar faces, he’d found the journey its own comfort. 

He always complained bitterly of the temperature in and around Skyhold to anyone who would listen, especially Cullen, but the pre-morning breathless cold could clear his head like nothing else. So he’d stay after pressing a hand fondly against Cullen’s door, leaning against the stone until his arms numbed and his cheeks burned just to take in a blessed moment of peace.

Of late, though, if he’s honest … he’s come here for something more.

Dorian twitches his cloak again and reaches into its folds to produce the small, weathered tome of verse. A silly thing, really - just something he’d found double-stacked in a study tucked away in the maze-like womb of the fortress. It yielded several volumes of interesting, arcane history that were immediately whisked away by Solas to pore over, but Dorian had knocked his fingers roughly against the back of one shelf to fish this little secret out from behind its larger neighbors.

He cradles the book in one hand, only slightly larger than his palm, and flips it over and over again. The leather’s smooth - calf? - and a warm buttery color devoid of decoration. Nestled within are rough pages sewn into the cover with a sturdy twine and carefully covered with a cramped, youthful hand.

Dorian huffs out a noise that’s not entirely a laugh and pauses in his fiddling. “You fool,” he breathes. Such a fool.

That’d been almost a week ago, and when he’d opened it and read the loving verses of the Chant of Light copied over from what was no doubt feverish, reverent study, he’d known who the book must go to. Humble, sturdy, careworn. Treasured. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, out again, to fight the sharp swell of his heart.

It’s an odd gift, to be sure, but Dorian still wants to press it into Cullen’s hands. See him turn the book 'round in his hands, peel open the cover and trace the words with a finger. Watch his eyes widen a little as he understands - _ please, Maker, let him understand _\- the small beauty of it.

It wouldn’t do to leave the damn thing outside Cullen’s door, and yet he came here to do just that because he doesn’t know what else to do with the book. Himself. Any of this. 

So Dorian stands on the wall and watches the sky warm and feels the chill in his bones, and taps the memory of the dreams of the devoted against the stone in time with his heartbeat.


End file.
